


Spellbound Sickness

by BlackCatRunning



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Cas is kind of dick, Castiel Whump, Christmas, Coughing, Curses, Dean Hates Witches, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Happy Holidays SPN Family, Have some platonic handsy bromance, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe just some very early Destiel if you squint, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 04, Secret Santa, Sick Castiel, Sickfic, Sneezing, Spells & Enchantments, Swearing, There is so little plot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Worried Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCatRunning/pseuds/BlackCatRunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas gets hit by a witch's hex while with the Winchesters and must contend with a powerful new adversary: the common cold. Also, it's Christmas time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spellbound Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was a Secret Santa for a very dear friend of mine! 
> 
> Set in season 4 at some point, but we’re making it Christmas time. Also, I don’t know where this plot idea came from. And I’m sorry for the rocky beginning xD. I hope this turned out all right. I’ve never tried writing such a virginal, angelic Cas before LOL
> 
> Warning: Language

Dean’s pretty sure Castiel is the most self-entitled prick of an angel he’s ever met. Well, maybe Uriel’s got him beat, but only by an inch. Every time Dean catches the flash of that dumb, billowing trench coat, he feels the heebie jeebies crawl up his arms and back. Not only do angels carry around a perpetual electric field (probably their “grace” or some shit leaking all over the damn place), but they’re all giant dicks, each in his own way.

After studying Castiel for a few months now, Dean has to admit the guy isn’t _that_ bad, but hell is he stiff. No derisive sarcasm or calm threats. Nope, Castiel’s a robo-angel who just wants respect and for Dean to follow the rules. He doesn’t get either, and probably never will. Sure, Dean’s impudence earns him pissy, soul-rending stares and guttural proclamations of his human ignorance, but nothing more. Besides, the little dude flutters away as fast as he drops in, so it’s not like Dean has to deal with him all the time anyway. He has Sammy to straighten out after the Dean-is-Dead debacle, after all.

Though now that he thinks about it, he’d really like to see Castiel get _surprised_ by something. Not just that, but really knocked down a peg on his dick-ometer. Sinking that blade into Castiel’s chest and watching him calmly slip it out impressed Dean, but it also made him hunger for something – anything – to knock Castiel on his ass. Don’t get him wrong, Dean didn’t want the guy seriously hurt. Just… _compromised_ is maybe the right word. It might give the angel second thoughts on how strong, tenacious, and awesome humans are. Dean suspects Castiel is already curious about humanity and everything in it, but he’s not appreciative of it yet. He needs to learn, and Dean wants the opportunity to teach him.

It comes very unexpectedly one day during a fight with a witch, four days before Christmas.

**\--- Dec. 21 ---**

“Shit,” Sam’s saying, turning an unconscious Dean over onto his back while he checks for head wounds. The floor’s cold and the run-down building is drafty, but not much can be done about it right now. “Not good, not good. You’re sure it didn’t hit him?”

“I am certain of it,” Castiel says. He’s standing a little off to the side, hands in his trench-coat pockets, somber and serious. That’s nothing unusual, but the deep, level gravel of his voice makes Sam fret that something very grave could have happened to Dean. Nothing did because Castiel took the full force of the spell himself, appearing almost out of nowhere to do it, and the witch was quickly disposed of. In the midst of all the confusion however, Dean suffered what could be a mild concussion.

Castiel squints ominously off into the distance, looking all brooding and majestic, and Sam sort of wants to throw some mustard on his tie for no other reason than to make him seem like a slob. How the angel can manage to annoy Sam by just standing around is impressive.

“Well,” Sam prompts, bitchfacing. “Can you heal him, or…?”

There is a brief silence, and then Castiel fixes Sam with a stare that chills the young Winchester to the core. Very suddenly, he realizes that he’s talking to an angel like he might talk to an incompetent mechanic. Also very suddenly, Dean groans himself awake.

“Is she dead?” he slurs, pausing for a bleary check of his surroundings before letting his head drop back to the floor. “She better be dead.”

“Yeah, Castiel flambéed her,” Sam says. After a moment for Dean to get his bearings, Sam sits him up and grills him with questions until he’s sure Dean doesn’t have a serious head injury. Lucky break. In the meanwhile, Castiel scans the area with one of his oh-so-Cas frowns and then turns fully to say something to the Winchesters. He gets halfway.

Dean and Sam blink as Castiel reels back, reaching up with a hand to swat at something, looking much like a man who had a bug fly too close to his eyes. He even takes a step away to escape from whatever just bothered him. Apparently, it doesn’t help. Not a bit. Dean narrows his eyes as Cas’s own blue orbs lose focus and begin to flutter shut, his pouty frown parting millimeter by millimeter as he gives his head a quick shake.

“Are you having a stroke?” Dean asks from his place on the floor, monotone. “Should we be calling Angel Alert?”

Sam almost laughs, but when Castiel hovers a cupped hand in front of his nose and mouth as if unsure of what to do with it, the brothers hesitate. Another impulse strikes him, and the angel rears his head back from some unseen force, desperate to get away from it. His nostrils are flaring, twinging, his face beginning to squinch, and then there’s a huge snatchy inhale—

And then he sneezes.

Castiel doubles over with a flap of his trench-coat, and it’s so loud it just about puts Dean in cardiac arrest. The floor shakes with near imperceptible vibrations as Cas staggers a step, groans in what sounds like relief, and wipes the edge of his hand all around and under his nose.

Sam speaks first. “Was… did you just sneeze?”

“Sneeze?” Castiel repeats, assuming his typical sturdy posture even as his nostrils twitch with an automatic sniff. He mulls this over with an uneasy expression. Dean smirks, and thinks Castiel is searching for the word in his mind dictionary. Finally, he says, “I am not sure if I should be doing that.”

“Why not?” Dean asks. Come to think of it, he’s never seen Castiel sneeze before but it’s not as if he spends all day with the guy. This does appear to be his first sneeze, though. Maybe he hasn’t been on earth that long at all.

Castiel saddles him with a squinty stare. “Because, angels…” His voice jumps in surprise, head snapping back as another tickle hits him square in the face. Dean never considered how physical and alarming a quick-rising sneeze can be until now. This one comes faster than the last, and Castiel throws his head down.

Once again it’s loud and again the ground trembles just a little, less than before. He shakes his head to get the rest of the tickle out. Dean snorts, and Castiel lays into him with a wicked glare. Not amused.

Sam collects the clues and spreads them into a question. “Castiel, just what was that spell you took for Dean?”

“It was meant to plague Dean, but I believe it has only weakened me.”

He spits out the words _weakened me_ like they are an affront to him personally, and both brothers raise their eyebrows. Neither of them are sure what _plague_ means exactly, but Dean finds himself grateful anyway. In the meantime, Cas stumbles into a lamp with another sneeze, sending the piece of furniture clattering to the ground. The floor no longer quakes when he does it, and it’s not clear if that’s a good sign or a bad one. Sam begins to ask, but Cas interrupts.

“My powers are…” He shifts his shoulders thoughtfully, and no matter how blank he looks, Dean can sense a humming panic. “They are difficult to reach. But it seems temporary.”

“So you’re grounded,” Dean says. Castiel flicks him a glance, tilting his head just slightly. His expression narrows just enough to say, _Your modern colloquialisms irritate me_. Dean persists. “You caught a cold from a witch’s spell, and you’re grounded.”

Castiel gives up and just turns around, walking purposefully toward the door with his hands deep in his pockets. His pace stutters to a stop and he tosses his head, wrenching forward a moment later with another resounding expulsion before he backhands his nose and storms out the door. Dean appraises the empty doorway.

“Hm,” he grunts. “He seems pissed.”

Castiel stayed pissed for the rest of the day. Pissed as he waited outside the Impala. Pissed as he haughtily explained, through chronic sniffles, that he could not fly and would need assistance. Pissed as he sat in the back seat, arms crossed, fidgety and stir-crazy. Pissed when they asked him if he could get an angel buddy to help him, and he had to inform them that it was an impossibility. Pissed when he wiped his nose with his fingers again and startled at the damp feeling against them, hurrying to wipe the evidence all away. Pissed as he complained about human secretions and the indignity of it all.

Dean thinks Christmas came early.

**\--- Dec. 22 ---**

With Castiel unable to fly and unwilling for one reason or another to leave, the brothers have to deal with him being around. It’s not so bad because Castiel is relatively quiet, but his sniffling is getting on Dean’s nerves. A few times he’s thrown napkins to him in the backseat of the car as they drive, though it doesn’t do much good. Cas just wipes his nose once and keeps on sniffling.

Sam presses his lips together tightly, knowing what could be coming. “Castiel,” he says. “You really should blow your nose. If you keep sniffling, you’re going to-”

The sneeze is a storm in a tiny space, sounding like thunder.

Neither of the boys were watching at the time, so both of them jump in their seats at the noise. Castiel’s refusal to clear out his sinuses is coming back to bite him, the persistent itching in his nose roaring into an unbearable sensation. He sneezes again, this time aimed at his lap, head down with what might be embarrassment.

“Bless you, Castiel,” Sam says, fishing for more napkins. He turns in his seat to hand them over, and Dean chances a glance in the mirror as he angles it on the angel. They sound like they’re giving him a hell of a time, Dean thinks. Not just little kittenish sounds, but strong gales brought on by a truly merciless tingling somewhere deep in his nose. It’s a nasty cold – that much is obvious. His throat must be in a misery too from all the sneezing he’s doing, scraping and loud as they are.

Castiel jolts with each one, getting only a sneezy, miserable breath or two before the itch catches speed and rises again. Sam’s still helplessly holding the napkins, awkward, as Cas gives into a roaring third.

“Holy hell, Cas,” Dean barks. “Bless ya already! Damn!”

“Th.. Than-..” He can’t get the word out completely, gripped suddenly by a few dry coughs that tingle at the back of his throat. Sam at last hands over the napkins and both brothers take a breath of relief. Dean shakes his head while Castiel tends to his nose. Judging by his posture, the guy’s embarrassed. _Really_ embarrassed.

“That sounds bad, Cas,” Dean says. “You feelin’ okay?”

Castiel deflates by the slightest margin, sinking against the seat, and nods once. When the silence stretches and Dean keeps tossing him glances through the review, he eventually says, “I am unsure of what to do about this.” On the word _this_ , he gestures to his face. Granted, the plugged sound of his voice and bare traces of rose-color across his nose are evidence enough of what he’s trying to say.

Dean can’t help but grin. Finally, something strong-arms the angel into confessing his ignorance. And who knew all it would take was a virus to do it? In high spirits, Dean throws a smile over his shoulder to Castiel.

“No problem, man” he says, cheery. “Sam and I are common cold experts.”

Sam’s dubious side-eye doesn’t inspire confidence, but Dean ignores him. At least Castiel has the decency to look a little reassured.

**\--- Dec. 23 ---**

Tending to a sick angel is annoying. Castiel’s not whiny or anything, but he’s inquisitive as all hell now that he’s accepted his fate. They can’t go five minutes without another tentative, is this normal? The brothers have decided (without council from the sulky angel) that it would be best to lay low for a few days until Cas got his mojo back. Sam’s caught between sympathy and exasperation, as Dean leaves him to answer most of the questions.

“It feels as though the point of a dnife is pushing down by esophagus when I swallow,” Castiel reports, his voice decidedly a little hoarse and less resonant than usual. “This is normal?”

“Yes,” Sam sighs.

They’re all three lounging in a crummy motel room. Well, Dean’s lounging. Sam’s searching for a case and Castiel is lingering by the window in a pair of Dean’s flannel pants and a too-big t-shirt. It’s snowing outside, slow and soft, and to Dean it’s actually kind of relaxing to watch. They don’t get too much time downtime nowadays, and honestly Dean hasn’t even gotten proper TLC since coming back from Hell. Which he doesn’t want to think about. Ever.

“I’b having trouble breathi’g,” Castiel says, and even sniffles to prove it. It sounds like a clogged drain. He’s made a habit of rubbing his nose with his fingers every few minutes too, and it’s growing an abused shade of pink. “This is dnorbal?”

Sam closes his eyes. “Yes, Castiel. It’s called congestion.”

“Stuffy nose,” Dean says with a grin, pointing to his own. Castiel’s eyes drift to him, the edges of them a little red and watery. He still tries to appear dignified, but the image of him is flagging. Inch by inch he slouches, stare wavering, and then Dean sees that he’s not so much sagging as he is struggling against something.

“I-.. there’s..” Castiel toils through his next concern, but Dean can tell what he’s trying to ask without hearing it. Dean waits and is rewarded with one of those long-familiar cold-cocked expressions, as if Castiel wasn’t expecting a punch on the nose and got one. Valiantly he tries to continue, even as his expression flickers and morphs, but his voice is stolen by the fast rush of a giant sneeze.

Dean’s glad he’s way over on the bed, as opposed to Sam who swipes his laptop and scurries back from the table just in time. Castiel groans afterward, coughing once or twice as his lungs protest. Dean would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t felt so sorry for the bastard.

For the first time since the spell got activated, Dean experiences the burn of pity. Of worry. Yeah, Castiel’s a powerful, pretentious angel, but right now he’s just a guy with a really bad cold. His first cold, Dean recalls. All his questions, all his fretting – it’s because he doesn’t know what to do, and he’s looking to the brothers to help him for once.

The catch-22 is that Cas is still too stubborn to admit how shitty he feels, even if Dean and Sam can plainly see it. He’s not going to tell them outright how badly he wants to sleep in a bed, not a chair. How badly he needs a blanket, not his trench. How grateful he is that Dean wrestled him into some flannel pajamas, not his slacks. As far as Dean can tell, Castiel’s only been cat-napping in one of the wooden chairs by the table when Dean and Sam aren’t paying attention. He won’t draw any attention to himself, and won’t cut himself a break. Won’t give into weakness, not even for a moment. It’s familiar enough to Dean, that need to be strong, but watching someone else fall to pieces because of it bothers him.

Castiel doubles over like he took a kick to the gut and stays that way, one hand braced against the window glass as he coughs and coughs. Sam meets Dean’s eyes from across the room and they both sigh.

Someone needs to wrestle control from the angel and put him to bed, so he can get better.

**\--- Dec. 24 ---**

It’s evening, the night dead black and frigid outside when Dean finally gets the upper hand. He’s field-dressing his guns at the tiny corner table while the classic animated Rudolph yammers soft show tunes over Sam’s clacking keyboard. With a careful cut of his gaze, he spies Castiel blinking slowly and steadily at the tinny television. His expression gradually weakens and Dean thinks he might sneeze, but instead he just yawns. One of those long, jaw-cracking, eye-watering, big-sighing yawns that gives the angel pause before he just sniffs and rubs under his nose with the back of his hand. He’s too tired to question unfamiliar responses of his human body anymore, Dean thinks.

Tonight, Castiel seems sleepy and small. It reminds Dean of a slouchy, chubby-faced Sammy, always listless and so quiet when he was sick curled up on the end of a lumpy couch, and the thought catches him right in the throat. He swallows it down. Sam looks up and must see something familiar in Dean’s expression because his gaze hits the floor and the corners of his mouth are fighting to rise. After years of watching his brother stuff down a smile, Dean can always tell.

With a grunt Dean pushes up from his perch on the chair and crosses the room. Despite his approaching drowsiness, Castiel still has yet to lie down. Instead, he insists on sitting on top of the covers while propped against the headboard. As Dean comes toward him, Castiel turns his head and levels him with a slightly swimmy stare. Upon closer inspection, those laser-blue eyes are foggy and glassed, like someone huffed hot air against their surfaces. The spots of color in Castiel’s cheeks and just under his raw nose are incriminating. Dean feels a rush of concern when he presses his hand over Castiel’s forehead and the angel does nothing but close his eyes.

The clammy wildfire under his skin says it all, and the follow-up shiver that stirs through Castiel meanwhile is superfluous evidence. It’s weird to touch Castiel because he’s normally so distant – he rarely initiates physical contact, no matter how close or far he stands – but it doesn’t bother Dean all that much. After nursing his brother through a slew of colds, dealing with Cas isn’t all that different. Besides, the dude is so awkward it’s hard to be uncomfortable at this point.

“Uh huh,” Dean says as he straightens, hands migrating to his hips. Castiel opens his eyes again, but they can’t seem to focus. He rubs at them with both his fists. “That’s a fever if I ever felt one.”

Sam’s head pops up from his laptop, hair flopping. He looks between both men, and Dean would swear he could see the dewy start of a puppy-dog pout. It zings through his chest, to see Sammy looking like that after all the shit they’ve been through recently – especially directed Castiel, who isn’t Sam’s favorite person by any stretch of the imagination.

“You think he needs a Tylenol or something?” Sam asks, tentative. Dean drifts a hand back to Castiel’s forehead, feeling the lace of warmth and sheen of sweat. He moves his fingers down to a scruffy cheek, and then at the crease of Castiel’s neck. Every inch of his skin is humming with heat. The patient, meanwhile, has closed his eyes again; his head jogs with the movement of Dean’s hand.

It worries Dean, just a little, that Castiel is so pliant right now. Usually he’s a blank, stoic figure, untouchable in the most intimidating of ways. Otherworldly, as if he could travel the galaxy by foot, hands in his pockets, comets overhead and stardust in his hair. When he sifts into a room, his presence electrifies. It’s something Dean can feel, and when Castiel settles that thousand-yard gaze on him, it’s like he’s being parsed cell by cell.

But today, that’s all out the window. The crackle in the air just isn’t there, those bright blue eyes are all fever-glazed, and Castiel looks like nothing more than a man. When Dean moves his hand away from his neck, Castiel lists sideways and catches himself before he topples over. He had been leaning into Dean’s touch, and now blinks repeatedly to reorient himself.

“He’s pretty warm, but no telling what drugs’ll do to him. Not gonna chance setting off some angelic nuke,” Dean says, beginning to tug at the sheets underneath Castiel’s body. “All right, supernova. Move your lazy ass.”

Finally Dean gets a hint of reassurance from the angel: Castiel throws him a dirty look. It’s comforting to see the guy still has the energy to get pissed, as non-threatening as it looks right now. Without waiting, Dean yanks the covers out from under the angel and earns himself a grunt of surprise, which of course turns into a string of coughs not a second later.

Castiel holds a fist to his mouth, no doubt because that’s how’s he’s seen humans do it, even though that’s probably one of the worst ways to cough germ-wise. Dean sighs, lays the sheets over Castiel’s body, and weighs the odds on how likely it is for him to catch this. While Castiel is still catching his breath, he moves further down the bed, grabs his ankles, and jerks to get him flat on his back. Castiel carefully lifts his head to frown at Dean afterward, clutching the sheets.

“Stop manhandling me,” he snaps, voice a scrape of gravel on a sidewalk. It sounds awful, husked and chipped away with illness. Both brothers wince a little, but Dean snorts at the comment and Sam ducks behind the computer screen to hide the turn of his lips.

“Sorry, princess,” Dean snarks, giving Castiel’s knee a few pats. The frown only gets deeper, head tilting just slightly to the left. As sick as he is, Castiel’s ice-glacier glare is a little menacing. Doesn’t stop Dean. “Didn’t know you were fragile cargo.”

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but begins to cough. It’s getting deeper, thicker, Dean realizes. If Dean’s not mistaken, he can also see the distant flicker in Castiel’s blue eyes that means he’s going to sneeze soon. The hunter snatches the the tissue box from the nightstand and drops it on the angel’s chest. He wonders if Castiel knows he shouts like a maniac every time he sneezes or what, and braces himself.

The sneeze is a friggin’ monster when it comes, reverbing in the small room. What’s more, the lights flicker, the TV flares with static, and Dean swears he hears a roll of thunder outside. Castiel slumps with an incredible relief.

“That sounded like you needed it,” Dean says, quietly impressed if not a little concerned. Sam nearly shit himself, and is currently leaned back in his seat taking a deep breath. “Blow now, okay? You know how?”

The angel slowly nods, and Dean watches Castiel take the tissues, keeping a sharp eye on him to make sure he’s not screwing it up somehow. Luckily Cas wasn’t pulling his leg and really did manage to blow his nose. He coughs in between blows, his entire respiratory system no doubt complaining. Judging by the sound of it, and the amount of tissues needed for the procedure, it was wildly successful.

Nearly finished, Castiel pauses and closes his eyes tightly. Dean frowns at him. “You okay?”

“D-dizzy…” And damn, Castiel must be feeling all kinds of shitty to admit to that much. Dean’s eyes flick to Castiel’s hands with a sinking heart. They’re shaking.

“Yeah, no biggie,” Dean says. He assumes full command over the tissues again and carefully wipes his nose. The skin looks wrecked – all around his nostrils, under, and to the sides of his nose is an angry, raw red – so Dean is mindful of it. When Castiel flinches once or twice, it makes him feel guilty.

“Sneezing like that and blowing your nose can get you lightheaded. Fever probably ain’t helping.” He feels compelled to help Castiel understand what is happening to him, suddenly aware of how unnerving it must be to get sick with no real previous knowledge of what anything means. “But hey, you almost blew out a light bulb. Means the mojo’s coming back online, right?”

Castiel’s head lulls when Dean nudges him, and all he mumbles is, “Don’t feel well,” in that awful threadbare voice and starts into coughing again. Dry, barky coughs that sound like hell on his chest and throat. Sam completely freezes, slowly looks over to meet Dean’s eyes, and both of them are thinking the same thing: _That’s really not good at all_. Gnawing at the inside of his lip, Dean again tests Castiel’s temperature. He’s so stupid for not getting a thermometer at the drug store.

“You don’t sound like it,” he says. Unable to gauge an accurate reading from just flesh on flesh, only knowing that he’s boiling, he figures the best thing Castiel can do for himself at this point is sleep. He lowers Castiel back onto the mattress without any complaint or struggle. The blue gaze that watches him is nowhere near as sharp and clear as it usually is. “Try and sleep, kiddo.”

And Dean doesn’t know why he said kiddo. It passes through his mind that he should be embarrassed, but he isn’t. Weird.

“Don’t… dun’sleep,” Castiel slurs, lips catching tiredly on the words. Dean smirks a little as he sees Castiel’s eyes flutter and close when he’s caught up in a yawn. They don’t open again after.

“Yeah, of course not,” Dean mutters. “That’s why you’re literally doing it right now.” He stands up from the bed, making sure not to creak or shift the mattress. It doesn’t matter all that much because Castiel is out like a light and dead to the world right away. It’s sort of a shitty way to spend his first Christmas Eve on earth, but it’s not Dean’s fault a witch gave him a cold. Mostly.

Across the room, Sam’s still acting as a one-man audience. Dean gestures awkwardly to the sick bundle mouth-breathing on the bed. “Angels. Heh.”

Sam squints at him, just a little. “You’re actually really good at that.”

“What?” Dean asks, even though they both pretty much know what. He continues as he blusters around the room in want of something to do, trying not to be embarrassed. “Well, he’s basically 5-year-old you, so… I’ve had practice.”

Sam snirks. “I was not _that_ stubborn – ”

Dean holds up a finger, fixing him with a look. “Don’t you even. You know how many times I had to lay with you to keep you in bed? Or how many runs I had to make with pocket change to buy you damn Spagetti-Os when you wouldn’t eat anything else? Or how many stupid-ass colds I caught because of you?”

Dean finishes his tirade, jerking his thumb to Castiel. “At least he blows his nose when I ask him to.”

Sam clears his throat and ducks his head, sufficiently cowed. Little brother humiliation complete, Dean swaggers into the shower and appreciates the water pressure while he listens to Little Drummer Boy play on the TV just a room away. When he flips off the water and steps onto the tile, he can just make out the soft, rattling sound of angel snores too.

**\--- Dec. 25 ---**

Dean doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he remembers laying down on the couch. He wakes up in Castiel’s bed, sans Castiel. The angel’s gone by morning without a note, so Dean has to assume he recovered and his mojo restored overnight. What he does leave behind is actually a little more bizarre than a hastily scribbled, _Angel Radio calling. Must fly!_

He left two long, black feathers.

Sam’s turning one in his fingers, peering at it. “You think they’re… you know?”

“Unless an ostrich burglarized the place,” Dean says, tying his shoe while his own feather is safely stashed in his pocket, “I’m guessing they’re Cas’s, yeah.”

He glances up ready to make another quip, but pauses when he catches the unbridled awe on his brother’s face. It had been so long since he’d seen Sam  _enraptured_ with something and it swells his heart in ways he had forgotten about. Quietly and without attracting attention to himself, Dean closes his eyes with a bowed head. Sends up a little prayer.

_Merry Christmas to you too, Cas._

/end~


End file.
